


a promise, broken

by ViolyntFemme



Series: kiss me [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Because even if it was true it wouldn't be here, Believed Major Character Death, But not REALLY Major Character Death, Coma, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief, Hand Jobs, Implied Suicide Idealization, M/M, Mourning, Rimming, Self-Harm, Use of the word Queer once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 08:38:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolyntFemme/pseuds/ViolyntFemme
Summary: Yes, he decides, as soon as this fucking Valentine mess is put to bed, they will go, and while they are there, Ian will ask Harry to be his husband.Harry and Ian Hart. Till death do them part.----------Harry. Ian. The Church.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This could be read as a stand alone, I guess, but it will make a whole lot more sense if you read the first fic in the series. Just sayin'.
> 
> I didn't plan on making this a series, but apparently Harry and Ian are not willing to go quietly into the night. 
> 
> I broke a rule I swore I would never break. That always, no matter what, everyone gets a happy ending. That will come, just not here.

**2014**

Ian falls through the door around two in the morning. He is tired, he is stiff, and he is _beyond_ pissed off. Harry sits up on the couch as he walks in, a blanket falling from his shoulders as he blinks at him. He is wearing nothing but drawstring pants and Ian resists the urge to go run his tongue across Harry’s right collar bone. He’s pissed, damn it, and he plans on staying that way.

“Welcome home. How did the water test go?” Harry asks, standing to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Lee’s boy got them all out by smashing through the mirror with his fist while Arthur’s candidate thought of loo snorkels. However, Amelia still ‘died’ so I would say that it all evened out.”

“Can I get you anything? Or do you just want to head to bed?” Harry reaches out and wraps his hand around Ian’s wrist. In a flash, Ian has flipped his hand so that he is the one holding Harry’s wrist and in a much firmer grip than Harry had on him. He pulls Harry closer to him so he can look directly in his eyes.

“Yes, you can get me something. You can get me an explanation for the fucking mess in The Black Prince I had to send in a team to clean up and then magically lose your feed to a _computer malfunction_.”

“Ah, yes, that,” Harry says, pulling away from Ian’s hand. Ian lets him go lest he pull the man forward and headbutt him in frustration.

“Ah, yes, fucking _that_ , Harry.”

“Well, they were very rude young men. They suggested that Eggsy was a rentboy and seemed quite determined to beat the shit out of him. I certainly couldn’t just leave them to it, could I? Of course, I couldn’t.” Harry blinks at him, all wide-eyed and innocent. 

“Oh, don’t give me that fucking shite, Harry. That doe-eyed ingenue look didn’t work on me twenty-eight years ago when you _were_ a doe-eyed ingenue. It’s lost a bit since you hit the first side of fifty.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “You can go fuck yourself, you bald bastard,” Harry says without much real heat. “I don’t look a day over forty-five.”

“How much do you pay that girl who slathers all the mud all over your face once a week to say that?”

“I’m a generous tipper,” Harry sniffs back at him.

“Back to the matter at hand, tell me what part of the ‘highest level of discretion’ confused you so much that you thought that this afternoon fell within its interpretation?” Ian goes back to the door and takes his jacket off, hanging it on the coat rack while he toes his shoes off, still laced, which drives Harry barmy, just to be contrary. Harry is right behind him.

Harry throws up his hands. “Oh, please, so I roughed up some petty thugs and darted a bartender. Who cares? Eggsy was impressed, I learned he was loyal and could keep his mouth shut, and now we have an excellent candidate in the running for the new Lancelot. What is the harm?”

Ian scrubs his hands over his face.

“What’s the harm? The harm is I had to spend four hours of my day cleaning up after you. Jesus fucking Christ, I ought to take you over my knee.”

“Oh, you definitely should. I completely agree,” Harry purrs as he rubs up against Ian, all annoyance gone from his voice.

“Harry, trust me, you would not enjoy it. I was raised in an orphanage that used corporal punishment as a treat. I know how to make it fucking hurt, and not in a ‘ _gosh, haven’t I been a naughty boy_ ’ way.”

“I daresay I would love to form my own opinion on the matter.”

“Get up the stairs, you daft sod.”

Harry brightens instantly and heads for the stairs.

“Not for sex. It’s two in the damn morning and I have to be back there at eight. I just want to sleep.”

“We have time for a quickie,” Harry calls over his shoulder, “it’s not like you have to wash your hair.”

Ian follows him, keeping the scowl on his face but covertly eyeing Harry’s arse as he walks in front of him. “I am going to kill you in your sleep one of these nights, I swear it.”

“I certainly invite you to try.”

—————

Harry strolls into the shop the next morning, right on time, which means no more than thirty minutes late, to grab breakfast with Arthur. Today he plans on not only drinking PG Tips in front of the man but also squeezing the bag against the cup with his spoon. He rather hopes Chester’s eyes will simply just bug out of his saggy head and roll away.

He knows this obsession he has with destroying Chester’s breakfast borders on the absurd, but he gets shot at for a living. He has to take his pleasures where he can.

“Good morning, Arthur. Lovely day isn’t it?” Harry asks as he sits down with a small pot of hot water and pulls out a few bags of tea. 

“Galahad,” Arthur greets him, sending a look towards the tea bags, but saying nothing, “I see you are performing yet another experiment with our candidate trials. First the father, now the son, who, I might add, looks to be even a poorer choice than his father. Picked him up from Holborn, didn’t you?”

“On the contrary, I don’t think Eggsy is a poor choice at all. Merlin mentioned, once he came _home_ of course,” at the mention of Harry and Ian’s cohabitation Chester’s lips purse so tightly it looks like he’s grown an arsehole on his face, “that Eggsy did very well indeed last night. In fact, he was the only one who made an attempt to get everyone out of the room while everyone else was concerned with saving their own hide.” Harry seems to have overshot his goal by alluding to the fact that he and Ian engage in homosexual acts regularly because now Chester is completely ignoring the tea bags. Harry takes one in his hand, ignoring the burning in his fingertips, and squeezes it directly over the cup. He then licks his fingers clean. Chester’s lips disappear further before he throws his napkin down on the table and storms out.

Harry laughs until he feels tears in his eyes before pulling himself together. He dumps the tea into the nearest bin and makes a pot of Earl Grey. He places it, some sugar and honey, and a few slices of toast on a tray. 

“James,” Harry says to the gentleman who presides over the dining room during meal times, “could you have this delivered to Merlin’s office?”

“Happily, sir.”

“Thank you, James, and might I say the spread this morning is looking especially lovely.”

“Thank you, I will pass it along to the chef.”

Harry smiles to himself. Chester’s morning is completely ruined and Ian will get some extra food in his stomach. Harry’s day is off to a smashing start.

—————

Harry pokes his nose out of the manor after lunch and finds Ian watching the candidates run through the obstacle course.

“The last time I remember standing here with you watching a group, it was Percival’s. Any candidate catch your eye in this one that I should know about?” Harry smirks at Ian, who just gives him the side eye. 

“I don’t know quite yet. Arthur’s lad is handsome enough, but I doubt his prick is as big as he thinks it is. I guess I could help him find out.”

“God, you’d snap the boy in two,” Harry laughs. “Seriously though, what do you think of them?”

“I’ve had them less than twenty-four hours, Harry. I don’t have any thoughts yet. Right now they are simply blobs of clay. I need to throw them against the wall a little, see what shapes come out.”

“The poor dears, if only they knew how true that statement is. Are you planning on letting them eat today, or is that part of the experience for you?”

Ian looks down at his watch. “Bugger.” He raises his voice so it booms out over the yard. “You lot have one hour to get cleaned up, eat something, and meet me on the south lawn for sniper training.”

The candidates start running past them. 

“Eggsy, a moment if you would,” Harry calls.

Eggsy runs over to Harry and walks beside him.

“So far so good, Eggsy? No second thoughts?”

“Nah, Harry, it’s no worse than basic was, although I think Merlin may be the scariest drill instructor ever.” Eggsy tips his head towards Ian, who in true Ian fashion, is standing with his brow furrowed, making furious notes on his clipboard. “That one is proper terrifying, he is.”

Harry thinks about Ian sitting in his soft pajama pants, stroking Harry’s hair while he lays on Ian’s lap as they watch Downton Abbey. (Which Ian does not cry over _thank you very much, Harry. This lumpy excuse for a couch is dusty as fuck all and I have very sensitive eyes_.) He thinks about Ian whispering endearments in Gaelic to him while making syrupy-slow love to him. 

“Yes, he is the terror of the manor, I assure you. And your group, what do you think of them?”

“That fucking Charlie, with his buddies Crabbe and Goyle, are right pricks, but Roxy is alright. I didn’t get a chance to talk much to Amelia before,” Eggsy swallows, “you know, but she seemed a bit of alright too.”

“I heard about Amelia. It happens during agent trials now and again. Just remember to keep your eyes open and work as much as you can as a team, even if you want to punch the rest of them. An agent must be able to work with multiple types of people, Eggsy, and you won’t always get along with them. Kingsman runs the best when we all do our part together, remember that.”

“Right, team work,” Eggsy nods and replies seriously, “got it, Harry.” 

“And if you happen to help Charlie straight into the pond while on the obstacle course, so be it.”

Eggsy’s grin threatens to crack his face. “Yes, Harry!”

—————

Harry has lunch brought to Ian’s office. 

“Are you going to see Dr. Arnold today so you can ask him why the fuck he’s walking around free when our friend died ‘saving’ him?” Ian asks.

“I plan to ask him quite a few things. I do hope he proves uncooperative.”

“Harry, I won’t be handling you so if you have a repeat of that fucking pub yesterday I won’t be able to help you. I think Caelia will be in your ear.”

“Tell her not to bother. I will be in the middle of Imperial College with nary a goon in sight. I think I can go solo on this.”

“Harry…” Ian starts.

“Hamish,” Harry says while Ian glares daggers at him, he hates his first name with a passion equal to that of a religious zealot, “do be reasonable.”

“Call me Hamish again, _Reginald_ ,” Ian retorts while Harry glares back, “and I will make sure that your Rainmaker blows bubbles. And, pray tell, how am I not being fucking reasonable? Someone took Arnold, and then someone, possibly even the same person, killed James and let Arnold go. Does it occur to you that _maybe_ that person or persons are still watching the man?”

“What do you think they are going to try to do in the middle of the day? Besides, I am not some green agent on my first mission. I am positive I can handle this myself. However, since you won’t be handling me, I am going to encrypt my feed to our server. I don’t want it seen by anyone else until we have a chance to talk about it.”

Ian sighs. “I suppose I can’t even appeal to you by saying I’ll worry?”

“You worry about everything, darling, it’s your natural state. I promise you I will be fine, and tonight, as a reward for allowing me to do as I please, I’ll let you tie me up.”

Ian’s eyes are dark as he gazes at Harry over the rim of his mug. “Hmm,” he shrugs, “deal. Although I want it on record that I strongly oppose this as both Merlin and your boyfriend. Christ, I hate that word, _boyfriend_. It makes us sound like two sweaty teens.”

“There are other terms we could use, but those would require some action on your part, wouldn’t they?” Harry stands to leave.

“Wow, could you drop than anvil of a hint any harder into my lap? I think it just crushed my bollocks.”

“Want me to lick them better?” Harry asks as he leans down to kiss him, his tongue snaking into Ian’s mouth. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Go harass the candidates and don’t worry about me.”

Ian reaches up and pulls Harry’s mouth back down to his for one more kiss. “Just be careful,” he says after they part. “I’m looking forward to my reward tonight.”

“I love you, you absolute deviant.”

“Love you too, you utter peacock.”

Harry’s laugh echoes down the hallway.

—————

Ian is going to kill him. Well, he is going to kill him if Harry doesn’t die first. Whatever had sprayed all over him when Arnold’s head exploded was making him extremely disoriented, complete with double vision and ringing in his ears. He has cuts on his face from barreling through the window and they are burning from the fluid that is seeping into them. It burns when he breathes. He can’t tell if the two goons, Ian is going to have a field day when he hears there were _goons_ , followed him or if the lighter grenade at least solved that problem. 

He finally finds a small alcove to tuck himself into, which is good because he really does not know where he is anymore, or for how much longer he can keep moving. He holds his watch up to his face, blinking at it blearily, hoping to hell that he is choosing the right setting and isn’t about to add a knockout dart to whatever is flowing through his system. He presses the crown. 

 _Please find me_ , he thinks and then everything goes black. 

—————

In 2011 Harry had had the misfortune of getting captured. This was not worrying in and of itself, Harry had a tendency to get captured, sometimes even planning it that way if he thought it would get him the information that he wanted quicker. However, what _was_ worrying was that he stayed dark even after Ian was able to confirm that the compound of the arms group he was after had been destroyed. There was no movement at the closest safe house, pings to Harry’s glasses went unanswered, and he was not at any local hospitals. 

As Harry’s lover Ian was beside himself with worry. As Merlin, he was ready to salt the earth. The extraction team that was sent in found no trace of Harry’s body amongst the ones found in the rubble. After three days of searching, Arthur gave the order for the extraction team to come home. He was ready to call for Harry’s toast before Ian was able to convince him to give Ian three more days to find Harry on his own. Ian suspected that Arthur secretly hoped that Harry would stay dead and Ian would get his smooth head shot smooth off his shoulders while poking around where he didn’t belong. Ian couldn’t have cared less. If Harry truly was dead, there wasn’t much left for Ian on this earth anyway. 

Ian was at home, grabbing whatever he could put his hands on and shoving it in a duffle, when his cellphone buzzed in his pocket.

“Hello?”

“Ian, love, I’ve fucking missed the sound of your voice,” Harry said from the other end of the line.

All of the strength went out of him and Ian landed in an ungraceful heap on the bedroom floor. 

“Jesus fucking Christ Harry, where in the fuck are you? Arthur was about to make me,” Ian choked a little, “drink a fucking toast to you. Fuck.”

“I am in a lovely lady’s house, a Ms. Patel. She says she found me in some bushes on the side of the road, incoherent and bleeding. I don’t remember much, but apparently, somewhere between the group catching me and me blowing up their facility, I lost my jacket and took a shot to the side. Luckily, she was kind enough to nurse me back to health. This is the first moment I have been awake long enough to dial a phone. I haven’t even checked into the manor yet.”

“I thought you were gone this time. I was coming to find you or die trying. Half of my clothes, and possibly some of yours, are crammed into your old military duffle. Do you know where you are?”

“Not a fucking clue other than I must be within a few miles distance of the compound. Ms. Patel gave me my glasses and I am going to activate them so you can get a lock on me.”

“Why the fuck didn’t do that before?”

“Because as soon as I woke up enough to understand what was going on, all I wanted was to hear your voice. I remember wondering, as I tried to hold my blood in, which doesn’t work by the way, if I was going to get a chance to see you again. After that, it’s all a bit dark.”

Ian hears a click. 

“There, Avalon should be picking up my location.”

Ian’s glasses start beeping at him. “I think they already have.”

“Be a dear and try to get on the plane with medical. If someone is going to grouse at me for being a ‘bloody fucking idiot’ I would rather it be you than that bulldog of a nurse Morgan.”

Ian was on the plane. After he held Harry’s hand and kissed his knuckles, he yelled at Harry until he fell asleep from the pain medication. While Harry was out, Ian _kept_ yelling at him inside his head so that when Harry woke up he had another telling off already planned out. After the first five minutes of Ian’s second wind, Harry turned up the morphine drip. 

While Harry was in medical, Ian made a small improvement to his watch. He programmed in a setting that if activated immediately sent the coordinates of the watch when activated, and if it was still attached to a wrist, the vitals of the agent. James and Alistair’s watches were similarly updated soon thereafter.

Ian did not trust Chester before he tried to give Harry’s toast, and he certainly did not trust the geriatric fucker after. He would keep those he loved safe even if it meant working outside of Kingsman’s protocols.

So when Harry’s personal alarms lights up his glasses while Ian is putting the puppies that were not chosen back in their kennels (meaning Ian was currently lying on the floor covered in the puppies that were not chosen in addition to the rest of the dogs currently in the kennels) he knows that Harry’s talk with Arnold, which he did not need a handler for, has gone completely tits up.

The read out on his clipboard showed that Harry’s vitals were dropping at an alarming rate. He has medical and Percival dispatched immediately.

Within the hour Harry is being wheeled in, unconscious, his face covered with _something_. According to Percival, he is completely unresponsive. Ian tries to follow Harry’s stretcher until he is pushed back by nurses. When he gets tetchy, he is held back by Alistair. 

“Merlin, you have got to let them work on him. You looming about and yelling at them every five seconds is not doing anyone any good.”

Ian glares at Alistair. “See there, looming and glaring. You’re like an oversized vulture. You even have the bald head,” Alistair says.

“I’ll have you remember that I can still tack your arse to the gym floor, Percival.”

“I have no doubt, and if that will keep you from harassing the staff, I’ll be happy to let you do so.” Ian’s eyebrows raise at the word _let_. “Go back to Avalon, I will stay here and wait on word about Galahad. I promise I will contact you the minute there is news. You will just drive yourself, and me, mad if you stay down here.

“Fine, but the minute, Alistair.”

“You have my word.”

Ian locks himself in his office and tries to lose himself in paperwork. It doesn’t work. He just keeps seeing Harry on the stretcher, again, not moving. 

His glasses ping. “Merlin.”

“Gipson is waiting to speak to you.”

When Ian gets to medical both Alistair and Dr. Gipson are waiting for him. Alistair moves to stand beside him.

“Galahad is in a coma, and we are unable to figure out the cause of it. There is no cranial or brain damage, or anything that would normally indicate the reason for an unresponsive state. We are analyzing the substance that was covering his face, but there is nothing definitive as of yet.”

“How long will he be out?” Ian asks, gripping his clipboard.

“Since we don’t know what caused it, I can’t even begin to guess. Other than the coma he is in perfect health apart from some scrapes and some bruising on his shoulder and upper back.”

“Can I see him?”

“Of course, of course,” Gipson says as he ushers them both into the room.

“I cannot wait for him to wake up so I can tell him how sick I am of looking at him in this bed.”

Alistair laughs behind him. “The last time James was in here I started in on him the moment he opened his eyes. I didn’t offer him any water, kiss him in happiness, or anything. I yelled myself hoarse, even the nurses wouldn’t come in. Once I finished he just looked at me and asked if I was done. I replied that I was for the time being. He said good and then asked me to get a nurse. It seemed that me going on a tirade before he even knew where he was startled him so bad he shit himself. So the moral of the story is this, make sure Harry orients himself before you start screaming Gaelic obscenities at him. Also, if you mention this to anyone, your precious clipboard will find out why I am the best sniper Kingsman has ever employed, and you _will_ be holding it when it finds out.”

Ian turns and hugs Alistair, who returns it just as tightly. “Thank you, Alistair.”

“Keep an eye on him. I will look in when I can.”

Ian is just about to sit down when Chester strides into the room.

“How is Galahad?” he asks, not looking the least bit concerned. 

“His MRI shows no signs of concussion, no direct brain trauma at all,” Ian answers, already weary of the man.

“How much longer can he be out?”

Ian resists the urge to strangle Chester. They haven’t even had the time to figure out what is wrong with Harry and all Chester is concerned with is getting him back into the field.

“That’s the million dollar question, we don’t know what he was exposed to in there.”

“What about Harry’s,” Ian almost drops his clipboard at Chester’s softer tone and use of Harry’s actual name, “footage, it wasn’t streamed to his home terminal?”

“Encrypted, uncrackable,” Ian lies. “If and when he comes round, you might want to have a word with him about sharing his password.” 

Chester’s eyes turn shrewd. The man doesn’t believe for one second that Ian doesn’t have Harry’s passwords for one, and for two, couldn’t crack the feed in five minutes if he wanted to. Luckily Ian is saved by Eggsy coming through the door.

“Is he going to be alright?” Eggsy asks, looking at Harry’s still form on the bed.

“We need to have patience, Eggsy. But there’s hope, ok?” Ian’s heart clenches, but he keeps going. “If I were you, I’d concentrate on your training. Make it through the tests, make him proud.”

Eggsy nods, looking worried. His eyes flick to Chester who is still in the room, watching both of them, assessing. Eggsy’s face immediately closes up and becomes the defensive mask he wore the first night Ian met him. 

“Go and study, Eggsy, you have a written exam tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mr. Unwin, you should use your time more wisely than poking around where you do not belong,” Chester intones. 

Ian stiffens instantly and he doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it is enough for Eggsy to actually step back. Ian reaches his hand up and grasps Eggsy’s shoulder. “I’ll keep you updated,” he says quietly. “Go on now.”

—————

Ian is away from the manor for the night. He was forced out of Avalon by an indignant Igraine, her lilting voice using language so vulgar that Harry would be proud, telling him that if he did not leave Avalon, and the manor, under his own steam then she, and the rest of his team, would dart him and stick him on a train to Wales. He didn’t know if he believed the Wales bit, but he had no doubt Igraine would forcibly remove him from the premises. More than likely Alistair would have helped her. He had been hovering over Ian for _weeks_. 

Eggsy is sitting with Harry tonight. Harry is rarely alone. It’s a never ending cycle of Ian, Alistair, Eggsy and even, when needed, Roxanne, constantly sitting with him so that he doesn’t wake up alone if it can be helped. Gareth and a few of the other agents sit in when they can. Chester comes once a week, like clockwork, to inquire as to his health, and then promptly leaves.

Harry has been under for two months. Not the longest he has been in medical, his personal best is the seven-month coma of 2010, but he has never been there without anyone able to tell Ian why. 

He walks aimlessly around Saville Row and the surrounding streets, not wanting to go too far from the shop lest Harry comes around. He goes in and out of shops, looking at everything and seeing nothing. 

“May I help you, sir?” a female voice asks, startling him. “What brings you into Hancock’s?”

Ian looks up and realizes he is in a very expensive jewelry store. “I’m not really sure actually.”

“Are you looking for a gift?” She glances at his hands. “An engagement ring perhaps?”

Ian is about to say no, of course not, when something stops him. He has been thinking about giving Harry a ring for some time now. He couldn’t wear it while working of course, but Ian liked the idea of putting a visible claim on Harry. Now, with the recent legalization of gay marriage in England, Ian has been thinking of it even more. He never expected to marry. He never expected to be _able_ to get married, but the thought of Harry waiting for him, looking so handsome in his wedding tuxedo, standing with him at the altar, and calling him husband makes Ian’s heart almost beat out of his chest. 

“Actually, yes.”

“Right this way, sir,” she says and begins leading him to the diamond rings.

Ian clears his throat, pushes back his shoulders, and refuses to blush. “The ring is for a man,” he says, looking her squarely in the eye.

“Of course, follow me.”

She leads him over to a display of men’s rings. He looks them over for a few minutes but nothing really catches his eye. He straightens up and thanks her for her time.

“Perhaps you would like to utilize our bespoke service if none of the rings we have out suit you? One of the jewelers is here and would be happy to sit down to talk with you.”

Ian nods so she shows him to a seat and goes to fetch the jeweler. In the end, he settles for a black ceramic ring with two fine lines running through it, one of whiskey barrel oak and the other platinum. He is having You’re my courage in Gaelic engraved on the inside of it. It will be ready in a month.

He tucks the receipt down into his wallet behind the picture that he carries of Harry, one of him sleeping with his hair corkscrewing every which way. Harry hates it and Ian absolutely adores it. 

Since he is still banished from the manor he heads back to the mews so that he can sleep and shower, and grab some new pajamas for Harry. Even after two months of Harry in medical he still has trouble sleeping alone. Giving up, he pulls his tablet on to his lap, intending to go over some requisition forms and mission briefs. Instead, he ends up looking at wedding attire until he falls asleep, one arm still around the tablet, holding it to his chest.

—————

It’s during month four that Harry finally wakes up, and according to the report Ian gets as he is _calmly_ walking to medical, he has woken up completely alert and bitching about the facial hair that was allowed to grow on him during his convalescence. 

Ian raises his hand to knock on the door before he enters, planning on walking straight in and, in the most polite, gentlemanly way possible, shoving his tongue down Harry’s throat. 

“Come in.” 

As Ian opens the door and sees Eggsy, and JB, because of course, Eggsy thinks it's perfectly normal to bring a _dog_ into _medical_ , he schools his face into professional indifference. 

“Ah, Eggsy. I need to have a private conversation,” _and by a conversation I mean filthy fucking snog, you absolutely inconvenient boy_ , Ian thinks, “You’re dismissed.”

“Nonsense. Let him observe, might learn a thing or two.”

Ian barely suppresses his sigh. “As you wish.”

Ian also just barely suppresses the urge to smack Harry on the side of the head when he states he plans on meeting with Valentine. Less than one hour out of his coma and he is already planning his next field assignment. Christ.

Once he finally gets Eggsy out the door Ian gently places his clipboard down on the bed and walks right up to Harry. His hands smooth down the lapels of the red robe while he looks into Harry’s eyes.

“Hello,” Harry says, smiling that wide, lovely smile that makes Ian’s heart stutter.

Ian smiles back. “Hello.” His left hand finds its way into Harry’s hair which is longer than Ian has ever seen it. His fingers thread through the longer strands before gripping tightly. Harry’s eyes flutter. Ian’s right hand drops down to Harry’s hip, pulling him close.

“Would it be rude of me to ask if your obsession with my hair comes from your lack of it?”

“Shut up, you cheeky bastard,” Ian says right before he kisses Harry, slowly. “I’ve missed you.”

“I would return the sentiment, but for me, I just saw you yesterday, or at least it seems that way. I am assuming though, since we just watched the footage of myself and Arnold, that Chester has seen it?”

“Unfortunately. I was able to hold off for about a month, but he stopped believing I couldn’t get in it after the second week I think. The man hates me, and us, but he is not dumb enough I couldn’t crack your feed even if we weren’t sleeping together.”

“Sleeping together. We should do that very soon.”

“What did Gipson say?”

“Clean bill of health, although he said that the substances that knocked me on my arse are still unidentified. I don’t know how I feel about now knowing that it came out of Arnold’s head however, that’s disgusting even my standards.”

“I think it’s disgusting by anyone’s standards, Harry. So you can go home then?”

“I can, thank god. Even though I haven’t been awake for it, I’ve been in this damn bed for four months. I’d much rather be in ours,” Harry says with a wink.

“For fuck’s sake, you just came out of a coma.”

“Exactly and in four months that’s the only thing I came,” Ian rolls his eyes, “out of. Why don’t you take me home and remedy that, hmm?” Harry asks, his hand coming up to Ian’s cheek and brushing his thumb against it. 

“Did Gipson ok you for ‘vigorous activities?’”

“He didn’t _not_ ok me.”

“Fucking hell, get your things, I’ll go talk to him.”

“Are you really going to go ask that man if I am well enough to ride your cock?”

“Among other things, yes. He is a Kingsman doctor, he’s seen worse than I can ask him. Remember that time James and Alistair…”

Harry holds up a hand. “Now I do. I had finally succeeded in blocking that out, thank you. Just go ask the man if you can fuck me, ‘vigorously.’”

“And why don’t you shower ‘vigorously?’ I plan on sticking my tongue in your arse tonight if Dr. Gipson thinks it’s an acceptable activity.”

—————

Ian must hear what he wants to from Dr. Gipson because Harry barely gets through the door before Ian has him crowded against the wall, his hands deep in Harry’s hair and his tongue deep in Harry’s mouth.

“Jesus, Harry, four months I have been without you,” he says as he pulls back. He uses Harry’s hair to pull his head back and start biting down the column of his neck. Harry goes boneless against the wall. “I had almost forgotten how sweet your mouth is, what your skin tastes like. How you feel clenching down around my cock. It’s going to take me _hours_ to relearn all of that.” 

“Your fucking mouth is filthy. Didn’t find some young thing at your support group to bring home? I’m sure you had,” Harry moans as Ian’s hand palms him through his trousers, “offers.”

Ian pulls back, not moving his hand, of course, just watching Harry’s face as he continues to gently stroke him through the fabric. “Of course I did, most of them believe you’re made up since they have never met you and I am a stunningly handsome man. Unfortunately, I am utterly besotted with your slightly saggy arse, so I had to turn all of them down, no matter how fit they were.”

“My arse does not sag, thank you very fucking much,” Harry exclaims, trying to twist away from Ian, his face indignant. 

“No, it doesn’t, but I haven’t been able to get your ire up for a few months so indulge me. Your arse is the finest arse I have ever had the pleasure of sticking my cock into…”

“Too fucking right it is.”

“And I would very much like to stick it up there now if you would be so kind as to let me.”

Harry folds his arms and huffs, a look that is completely ruined by the fact his eyes keep rolling back in his head now that Ian has gotten his hand _in_ Harry’s trousers. “I should make you go wank in the loo.”

“You could,” Ian says, leaning forward to run his tongue up the shell of Harry’s ear. Harry trembles in spite of himself. “But I think that would be detrimental to you as well.” Ian’s Hand dips further into Harry’s trousers, his long fingers stretching past the weight of Harry’s bollocks, lightly caressing the seam, and then moving further back. “Come on, Harry. Be sweet for me, let me in that tight arse of yours,” Ian murmurs in his ear. Ian’s mouth moves back down to Harry’s neck and bites down. Harry bucks into his palm.

“Ian…” 

“What, Harry, what can I do for you?” Ian asks. “I’ll do anything you want.”

Harry’s legs are shaking from the maddening feather light stroking Ian has kept up. He can feel himself ruining the pants he is wearing, and while he might not remember not having sex for four months, his cock is 100% aware that it has had one fucking hell of a dry spell.

“I believe you mentioned something about getting your tongue up my arse?”

“I knew you’d get there. Why don’t you go upstairs, strip and lay on the bed? I am going to lock everything up.”

“It’s six in the evening.”

“I plan on being up there a while, Harry. Now go do as you're told.” Ian removes his hand from Harry’s pants and gives him one lingering kiss.

Harry doesn’t run up the stairs, he just ascends them quickly. Within minutes he is out of his clothes, has hung them up, placed lube on the bed and laid down, face down. After months of Harry being gone the bed smelled only of Ian and Harry absolutely luxuriated in it. 

“Now that is a sight I have missed,” Ian says as he walks in and begins taking off his own clothes. 

“What’s that?”

“Fishing for compliments, isn’t that a little beneath you?”

“No, it’s not. Tell me I’m pretty.”

Ian comes over to the bed and lays down on top of Harry, fitting their bodies together, Ian’s erection sliding neatly into the cleft of Harry’s arse. 

“God, Ian.”

“Harry, you are not pretty. You are the most devastatingly handsome man I have ever had the pleasure of touching, and now that I have told you that, I am going to show you.” Ian takes both of Harry’s hands and stretches them above his head. “These stay here, or I stop. Do you understand?”

Harry nods.

“Verbal, Harry.”

“Yes, Ian,” Harry says, already a little breathless. He loves it when Ian gets dominant in bed. 

“Good.”

Ian uses Harry’s hair to turn his head so he can kiss him, and then moves to his neck, biting and kissing randomly, not allowing Harry to get used to any pattern. Harry can already feel his toes curling. Ian has always been able to play him expertly. 

Ian’s hands smooth down his sides while he slowly runs his tongue down Harry’s spine. Harry instantly arches against Ian’s mouth. When he finally get’s his hands on Harry’s arse, he kneads it for a few minutes, like he is enjoying the heft of it in his hands. 

“Knees under you Harry, get that arse in the air for me. Let me see that hole of yours.”

Harry blushes because somehow Ian knows just how to make him feel like a tart, which he also loves, and pulls his knees under him, his arse up in the air and his chest on the bed. His arms stay where they were put. 

“Love, I know you can do better than that.” Ian taps the inside of his knee. Harry moans into the duvet and spreads his legs as far as he can. “Perfect.”

Harry feels the bed dip behind him. Ian’s hands grab his cheeks, spreading him wide open. Harry forces himself not to wiggle under Ian’s gaze. 

“Look at you, Harry. Just gorgeous. Just good enough to eat.”

“Less pun, more tongue, if you would please,” Harry says, although it is somewhat muffled by the duvet. 

“As you wish.”

Harry has always thought of himself as more than adequately killed at giving someone a rim job. None of the men or women whose arses he has had his mouth on seemed to be anything but ecstatic with his performance. But, Ian? Ian is top marks all around. He eats arse like it is an Olympic sport and he is going home with all the medals, possibly some that aren’t even his. 

Alternating between soft licks around the rim, pushing his tongue into Harry’s arse as far as it could go, and fingering Harry while tongue fucking him, he reduces Harry to a complete mess. His thighs are shaking. His cock is so painfully hard Harry thinks he might actually scream if something touches it and yet at the same time he prays something will. He is drooling on himself and he stopped speaking actual words possibly an hour ago, even though Ian has only been rimming him for fifteen minutes tops. Warm saliva is trickling down his sack and he doesn't know if the wet spot on the duvet is from Ian’s mouth, his own cock, or a combination of both. Not that he gives even a quarter of a fuck at this point. 

Ian pulls back from his arsehole to nip at his left cheek. “Turn over for me Harry, there you go.”

Harry flips over, taking a moment to stretch his legs while Ian massages his calves. Harry reaches for him, pulling Ian up to lay back down on him. Their cocks slot together and Ian kisses him deeply, Harry moans from the sheer filthiness of it all. His hips buck up into Ian’s. He reaches down and wraps his hands around both of them, jacking them tightly. Ian’s head drops down to his shoulder where he bites down, gritting out “ _Fuck_ ,” between his teeth. 

“Fucking hell, Harry, you feel so fucking good under me.” He bites down again, right above Harry’s heart. “I want to keep you right here, never let you out of bed. Just keep you naked and used and ready for me. I wanted to get my lips on your cock, but I have to get inside you before I come all over your stomach.” Ian brings his face back up to Harry’s kissing him, his tongue swiping against Harry’s gently. Harry wraps his legs around Ian’s back. He is panting _please, please_ between kisses before he realizes he is even doing it. He sounds desperate. He sounds wrecked. He is both. 

Ian kneels up, keeping Harry’s legs around his waist. He grabs to lube bottle and looks around for a moment. “No condom?”

“No, I’ve been in medical for months. We know I am clean, as are you. I want to feel you come inside me. I want to feel it dripping out.”

“God, you filthy whore.” 

Harry throws back his head at this and tries to wrap his hand around his cock. Ian delivers a slap to his inner thigh. 

“Not yet, put your hands back up above your head. Good. You're doing so well for me Harry. So pliant tonight. I like it.”

“Sod off,” Harry replies, but the desperation evident in his voice removes every bit of sting the words have.

Ian begins to finger Harry open, using more lube than necessary so Harry feels just dirty with it. Just when he is about to resort to begging, Ian removes his fingers and pulls away from Harry completely.

“Ian?” Harry asks, looking around with his glazed eyes. 

“Just a moment.” 

Ian settles himself loosely cross-legged on the bed, back against the headboard. “Come sit in my lap.” 

Harry moves on rubbery arms and legs until he is positioned in Ian’s lap, facing him, his legs around the small of Ian’s back. Harry grabs the headboard to raise himself up so Ian can push in. Harry lets himself sink down slowly, relishing the way Ian feels inside of him. Ian’s hands start directing the motion of his hips while Harry leans backward, his hands behind him on the bed for support. Once he adjusts, he begins moving with purpose until he is all but bouncing on Ian’s cock.

“Yes, Harry, God, you are fucking amazing. Just like that,” Ian groans as Harry clenches around him, “fuck yourself on me. Let me see how much you fucking love it. _Christ_.”

Harry can feel his orgasm coming up from deep within, coalescing to one burning, pleasure pain ball directly in his groin. His cock slaps against his belly, the wetness from it running down into his pubic hair. He is sweating at his brow and back. He loses the sense of everything around him but the feeling of Ian deep within him, his strong hands on Harry’s hips, biting in, and the way their panting moans twine together in the room around them. 

“Ian, I’m… I’m…”

“Do it, I want to see you.”

Harry tilts his hips just a fraction so his next thrust down hits his prostate and he comes apart. His back arches, his head falls back, and all he can do is yell out Ian’s name as he shakes. His come splashes across his belly, up to his chest and neck. It feels like it goes on forever, so intense that he would have fallen completely back had Ian not grabbed him and pulled him to his chest, holding him tight while he shakes with aftershocks. Ian is kissing his neck, his face, whispering beautiful, crude things in his ear while he continues to thrust up into Harry. 

“Fucking love you so much, Harry, love fucking you, love hearing you call my fucking name when you come, can’t ever lose you, never, because I fucking love…” Ian’s voice stutters as he begins to come. Harry can feel each wet pulse of it inside him. Ian’s teeth clamp down on his shoulder, biting deep enough to bruise and Harry loves it. 

He wraps his legs and arms around Ian, holding him as tightly as Ian is holding him. Neither move.  

—————

Harry still feels a bit wrong-footed from his visit with Valentine as he opens the door to his home. The whole spy and colorful megalomaniac conversation with Valentine’s assistant behind him, practically sharpening her legs, made Harry wonder for a moment if he was even going to make it out of there.

“Ian?” Harry calls as he comes in.

“Study.”

He is undoing his bow tie as he steps into the study. Ian has stripped down to his vest and trousers. His face is lit up by the computer screen and there are three half drank cups of tea on the desk. He glances up at Harry and then back down at the screen.

“Have I ever mentioned that that suit makes me want to fuck you against a wall and burn it simultaneously?” Ian asks, the fingers of one hand flying over the keyboard while the other makes notes on a pad next to him.

“I do think I would prefer the former to the latter. I love this suit,” Harry says, smoothing one hand down the velvet on his arm. “It’s hideous and it reminds me of James. The first time Chester saw it he went green, although I doubt it was from envy. I couldn’t wear my normal suits anyway, DeVere is a bit more colorful and eccentric than I am.”

Ian hums noncommittally. 

“How much of tonight did you see?”

“All of it. I was monitoring you from home. I gave Avalon to Igraine for the weekend, let her stretch her wings a little bit. I figure we are only ten to fifteen years away from retirement, so I have to start getting her ready.”

“Oh, I have no doubt she is already ready, she just doesn’t want to hurt your feelings by shoving you out of the door.”

Ian laughs. “You’re probably right. She’s already bringing me schematics for new tech, things I would never have thought of. Now I know how our Merlin felt when I invented the glasses.”

Harry comes over and presses up against Ian, leaning down and kissing him on top of the head. “I don’t think you’re ready for your dotage quite yet, darling.” 

When Ian realizes Harry has just been standing next to him for a few moments, silent, he wraps an arm around Harry’s hips and sits back so he can look up at him. “What’s on your mind, Harry?”

“Retirement. I just never expected to see it, and now we are talking about it even in the most abstract of ways. I always thought I would go out in some blaze of glory, Rainmaker held aloft while I pulled one last death defying stunt that ended up _not_ defying death. My only regrets would have been that you would probably be the one watching me as I went and that I would be leaving you alone.”

Ian tugs Harry down to his lap, which makes Harry feel quite ridiculous, two tall long-limbed men like themselves squished into the chair like two storks fucking, and safe all at the same time. “You are a daft bastard, Harry Hart. The night after Lee died, when I found you in half drunk and you said it should have been you, I made both you and I a promise.”

“Which was?”

Ian threads a hand into his hair and turns Harry’s head so he is looking directly into Ian’s eyes. “You will always come home, Harry, because I will always bring you home. For almost thirty years I have been making sure you come back here. Battered and bruised, sometimes in a coma, but you come home.”

“And I am always thankful for that.”

“Well, it’s not completely selfless on my part. I am just too bloody old to start all over again with some other arsehole,” Ian says, smirking.

Harry places his hand on Ian’s cheek, enjoying the feel of the evening's stubble rasping against his palm. “Ian, in all seriousness, if something _does_ ever…”

“I will thank you to shut the fuck up right now.” Ian’s eyes shut and his arms tighten around Harry’s waist.

“I shan’t. If something ever does happen, I do not want you to be alone, rattling around this house like a marble,” Harry rubs the top of Ian’s head, “in a tin can. Find someone else and be happy with my blessing. You and Alistair could pick up where you left off.”

Ian laughs outright at this. “I once heard that in every relationship needs a flower and a gardener. You and James? Definitely the flowers, while Alistair and I are the gardeners. I enjoyed my time with Alistair, but I enjoyed it for what it was. Neither of us have ever had romantic designs on the other.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be alone. I am sure you would say the same of me.”

“No. If I go before you, I expect you to wear black and be in mourning for _years_.”

“I would be, you know.”

“And you expect it to be any different for me? You’re it for me, for all my fucking sins, Harry. You are it.”

Ian kisses him deeply. “Enough with all this talk though. We are going to retire in fifteen years to your cottage and raise goats, or bees, or whatever old men do when they no longer have to topple governments. We will take Viagra, break our hips shagging, and when they stick us in the care home, we can chase each other in our wheelchairs.”

“I couldn’t ask for anything more. Perhaps we should practice the shagging part through, just to make sure it’s muscle memory by then.”

“Any excuse to get on my cock.”

“If it wasn’t such a superb cock, darling, perhaps I could tear myself away.”

Ian slaps Harry’s arse when he stands, rolling his eyes. “Go, get in the shower. I’ll lock up and join you in a moment.” 

—————

Ian lies in bed, awake, while Harry is on his chest sleeping the sleep of the thoroughly fucked out. His fingers slowly sift through Harry’s hair, twining the curls around his finger absent-mindedly. Harry had hit too close to the bone earlier. It was surprising that Harry had survived being a Kingsman for almost thirty years. The shelf life of most agents was fifteen to twenty, so very few made it to retirement with all their limbs and fully functioning.  

If Harry ever does die in the field, it is a comfort to know that he will be there, that his voice will be the last thing Harry hears. On the other, he can’t bear the thought of seeing Harry die in front of him. It’s been so close, so many times, and Ian has nightmares about each and every one of them. In his dreams, he still brings Harry home only it’s in a body bag. He thinks that might be the worst though, knowing that he won’t even get that. Like Alistair, he will have to go through each day knowing that Harry’s body is lying somewhere, rotting, unclaimed. He hugs Harry tighter, pressing a kiss into that most beloved hair, breathing in his scent. 

The ring lays in his sock drawer, tucked into a pair of atrocious socks with circuit boards patterned on to them that Harry bought him one year as a joke. He hasn’t proposed yet because he doesn’t want it to be some hurried thing between breakfast, mission planning, and work. Harry deserves a proposal that is special, thought out. Ian thinks that he might plan a weekend for them in Harry’s little cottage, no work, no Kingsman. If they do get to retire there, having the memory of the proposal would make it even sweeter. 

Yes, he decides, as soon as this fucking Valentine mess is put to bed, they will go, and while they are there, Ian will ask Harry to be his husband. 

Harry and Ian Hart. Till death do them part. 

—————

Eggsy didn’t know what he was expecting when he walked into Harry’s house, but it certainly wasn’t this. It was very "rich gran" decor, antiques, fluffy pillows in strange fabrics, ugly paintings that probably cost more than Eggsy could make in a year. From what little he knew of Harry, he had expected something like the decor at the manor, dark woods and rich colors, only with more modern lines.

 Maybe Harry’s wife decorated it and Harry was just too whipped to say anything. 

“Make yourself at home, Eggsy. Would you like a drink?” Harry asks while he is hanging up his suit coat. 

“Yeah, ta.” 

Eggsy walks around the sitting room, his plaque jacket clashing with the room so terribly that it makes him smile. He is looking at the books, some of which he has actually heard of when he notices the pile of gadgetry on one side table. 

“Fancy yourself a tinkerer then, Harry?”

“Excuse me?” Harry asks, standing in his shirt sleeves and holster, mixing their drinks. 

“The pile of metal on the table over here, looks like a bunch of computer circuits or some such shite.”

“Oh, no, that’s Ian’s. I know my way around a computer, certainly, but Ian is the builder,” Harry says as he comes into the room. He spies the pile and sighs. “And he is usually much neater, but we have been _busy_ as of late.”

“Who’s Ian?”

“My boyfriend, for lack of a better term,” Harry replies as he hands Eggsy his drink. 

“You’re gay?” Eggsy blurts before he can stop himself.

“Bisexual if you want to put a label on it. Is that a problem?”

“Nah, bruv. I don’t care either way myself, birds or blokes. I guess I just pictured you with some fit little wife or mistress tucked away somewhere.”

“Well, it wasn’t for lack of people trying, trust me.”

“You guys been together long? Does he know about Kingsman?”

“It’s a long story, but suffice it to say that we have been in love for almost thirty years, and yes, he does know about Kingsman.”

“Wow, Merlin told us that if even whispered about Kingsman us and our family would be in body bags.”

Harry chuckles. “He is so dramatic. Normally we do not tell our families about Kingsman. In our case, however, Ian already knew.”

“How?” 

“Like I said, long story.”

“Well, if you don’t want to talk about him, you have to tell me how two blokes ended up in a house that looks like it was decorated by someone’s gran, yeah? Unless Ian is into it.”

“He is most certainly not. I think he has just become accustomed to it. I inherited the house from an aunt. I had always meant to redecorate but by the time I got to it I realized that I like it. It’s completely different than the manor, and I find it relaxing and comforting now. I couldn’t bear to change it.”

“It’s tarnishing the image I have of you, Harry. All suave and slick, beating the shite out of Dean’s dogs and then you come home to… to… what is this even called?”

“Toile.”

“Oh, of course,” Eggsy sticks his nose up and changes his accent, “toile. How ever could I be so silly.”

“Come on, if you’re going to be a little shit, we can go to Ian’s office. I’ll show you my collection of _Sun_ covers.”

Four martinis later Eggsy is staggering down the hall to the guest. As he trails his hand on the wall to keep him upright, he notices some photos hanging up. All of them have Merlin and Harry in them. He sees Roxy’s uncle, Percival, in a few with another man he doesn’t recognize. He stands there for a moment, swaying slightly, trying to focus. In the photos Merlin is _smiling_. Eggsy didn’t think the man knew how to smile, but he is and he is usually smiling at Harry.

It all comes together in one moment of drunk clarity. The pile of gadgets on the table, the photos, the jumper that was laid over the desk chair when they went into the office.

Fucking hell, Ian is _Merlin_.

—————

Harry is cooking breakfast the next morning when he hears Eggsy stumble down the stairs. 

“Good morning, Eggsy. Hat off at the table if you please. We are going to have an etiquette lesson this morning, so it is best to start it off right.”

“No, Harry.”

“Yes, Eggsy.” Harry is standing next to Eggsy, explaining the proper use of the silverware when Eggsy interrupts him.

“Why didn’t you just say you was dating Merlin?”

“I daresay it’s a little more serious than dating.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Why didn’t you say your boyfriend is Merlin?”

“Is it important? That Ian is Merlin, I mean.”

“No, it’s not. I was just surprised I guess. I mean the man acts like he has a stick up his arse.”

“Oh, he does have that, Eggsy, he definitely has that,” Harry replies, thinking of him saying the exact same thing the first night he met Ian. “I do hope you realize that this doesn’t mean you can call him Ian at the manor.”

“Fucking hell, Harry, I don’t have the bollocks to call him anything but ’Sir.’ Proper scary, he is. Makes sense though, how much time he spent in your room when you was in the coma and all.” 

“He is a mother hen. Always has been.”

“Maybe if hens had grenades strapped to their back.”

Harry laughs. “Too right. Now, as I was saying about the forks…”

Eggsy’s head hits the table with a dull thud.

—————

Harry hates leaving Eggsy to Dagonet for his fitting, but seeing Valentine standing in his shop, an extension of his home in a way, was simply beyond the pale. As he takes the train he pings Ian on his glasses.

“Galahad, how may I be of assistance?” Ian asks.

“Valentine was just in the shop. Could you and Arthur meet me in the Table room?”

“Certainly. We will see you there.”

Harry storms off the train, heading to the Table room. He finds Chester and Ian already there, a steaming cup of tea sitting at his seat. He takes a seat at Arthur’s nod and sips it his tea only to find it half whiskey. He inclines his head at Ian with a smile. Chester studies his own tea intensely. 

“Valentine has somehow followed me back to the shop. Do we have any idea of how?” Harry asks, directing it Ian. 

“Not a one. The cab, as you know, would have automatically swept you for any listening or tracking devices upon entering and leaving it. It found nothing. There is nothing connecting your DeVere alias to the shop. I would say it was just bad luck, but we all know that it is not.”

“I sent him to Lock & Co. for a hat, so by the time we are done here we should be able to hear what he and his assistant are up to.”

“Good thinking, Galahad,” Chester says, tipping his cup towards Harry. “Merlin, have you been able to find out any more about the South Glade Mission Church and its possible connection to Valentine?”

“Not yet, sir, but I am sure we will.”

“Good, good. For now, I think it is best if we just let this ride out. Valentine will be in town for at least two more days if he is going to Ascot. Perhaps by then, he will say something that gives us some insight into what he is planning.”

Harry and Ian share a look.

“Would you like us to put someone on him, Arthur? One of the agents he couldn’t have seen. Gareth, perhaps?”

Chester waves Ian off. “No, that won’t be necessary. The bug should do our work for us. Now, I think that takes care of everything. Merlin, keep looking for information on that church and Galahad, why don’t you make sure Mr. Unwin makes it back to his dormitory without half the shop's inventory in his pockets. After all, tomorrow is the big day. He should be rested for it, yes?”

Harry digs his nails into his thigh underneath the table to keep from cramming Chester’s cup directly down his throat. 

“Very well.”

A notification pops up on his glasses from Ian. _We’ll talk at home_. 

Once back in the shop, he finds Eggsy just finishing up his fitting. Harry chooses the fabric for Eggsy’s suit, along with the tie. Dagonet assures him it will be finished in two days. 

“Well now, Eggsy, how did you find your first fitting?” Harry asks as they make their way back to the train.

“A little awkward to be honest. Never thought I’d be discussing how I ‘dress’ with old Dagonet back there, yeah? But it was cool. Don’t know what I’ll use that suit for though if I don’t make it in. Not much call for bespoke around the estate.”

“Nonsense. You will need the suit because you will be Lancelot. Of this, I have no doubt. You have exceeded my expectations and even Merlin is impressed, which is almost impossible to achieve.”

Eggsy’s ears go pink. “I never got a chance to thank you, Harry. You know, for pulling me out of jail and bringing me here. At first, I thought you were completely off your nut, but it’s been great. Maybe even if I don’t make it, I can do something else. I’m sure Arthur would let me be a janitor or something.”

Harry stops and puts his hands on Eggsy’s shoulders, forcing the Eggsy to look at him. 

“Eggsy, stop. As I said, you have done exceptionally well and there is no reason to think you will not continue to do so. If, and I do mean _if_ , you are not the next Lancelot I will personally make sure that you do not have to go back to your old life if you do not choose to do so. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, now get on the train, go back to the manor and make sure you get some rest. This will be over with by this time tomorrow, good or bad.”

Eggsy nods. 

“Off you pop,” Harry says as he ushers Eggsy into the train. “I will see you tomorrow after the final test. Good evening, Eggsy.”

“Bye, Harry.”

Harry heads home to wait for Ian, but once there, after changing into casual trousers and his favorite cardigan, he can still not settle. He putters around the house, making dinner and putting a plate in the oven to keep warm for Ian. He finally makes himself a drink and sits down with a book, although he finds that he is reading the same two pages repeatedly. He is just about to toss the book against the wall when he hears Ian come through the door.

“Dinner is in the over, liquor is in here.”

Ian brings his plate into the sitting room, stopping by Harry to give him a lovely hello kiss that makes the back of neck feel warm, and to snag the drink Harry is holding out for him.

“I don’t think I tell you often enough how much I enjoy your cooking. Thank god you were a teenage slag who was trying to fuck your cook,” Ian says.

“You reap the rewards of that summer in more ways than one I’ll thank you to remember.”

“Right, that’s the summer the kitchen maid taught you how to suck a cock. I should really send her a thank you card.” 

“You really should. I think she still works for my parents on the estate. Won’t that make their day, getting a card from my very male lover for the former kitchen maid who taught me fellatio? It might kill them. Put it on tomorrow’s to-do.”

“Done. So, what did you think of Chester this afternoon.”

“He certainly didn’t seem too awfully concerned with a current mark, one who is most likely connected to a death of an agent and who is surrounded by people who have explosive chips in their heads, finding his way into our shop.”

“No, he did not. I expected him to be the one to suggest someone shadow Valentine, but for him to simply wave it off as if Valentine was of no import? I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I. I could almost blame it on Chester’s dislike for James if that was the only thing we were watching Valentine for, but there is something going on. We need to be careful going forward. I want all my feeds encrypted to our home server. He doesn’t see them until you see them.”

“Agreed.”

They lapse into silence for a while. Harry’s nerves are calmed enough by Ian’s proximity that he is finally able to read his book. Ian sits on the couch doing something with a circuit board and swearing under his breath every so often. 

Later, Ian grabs Harry’s hand and leads him up the stairs to bed. They share sleepy hand jobs, no urgency to them, just enjoying the closeness of the other. Once Ian has cleaned them up, Harry curls up to him and falls asleep instantly. Ian follows right behind him, one hand holding Harry’s hand that is resting on hiss chest and the other in Harry’s hair. 

————

Ian wakes up to find that Harry was still in the same position, curled into Ian with his fluffy head on his chest, which Ian finds terribly sweet. However, Harry being Harry, has also been drooling on him all night which he finds terribly, revoltingly, disgusting. 

Harry is damn fucking lucky he’s pretty.

“Harry,” Ian says while jostling the shoulder Harry is drooling on, “Harry, get the fuck up.”

Harry smacks his wet lips and snuggles in closer. Ian shudders. 

“Harry, I swear on Mr. Pickle’s decaying head that if you do not get off me so I can go wipe down I will flush your precious custom shampoo directly down the toilet.”

Harry’s eyes crack open and glare at Ian. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me you overgrown baby. Fucking hell, this is disgusting. I’m going to start tying a bib around your neck at night,” Ian says as he wiggles out from under Harry, stands and looks down at his wet shoulder and chest. 

Harry lays back in the bed laughing, his smile the wide, toothy one that makes Ian want to fuck him into the mattress and drop down on one knee to present that ring resting in the drawer behind him all at the same time. His lips turn up of their own volition. “I loathe you at times, Harry,” he says as he walks into the loo to get a flannel.

Harry laughs harder. Ian finishes toweling off and walks back into the room, unashamedly nude.

“Christ, Ian, you are gorgeous,” Harry says, his sleepy eyes becoming clear as his gaze roams over Ian. 

“Harry, don’t even start. Today is the dog test. I have to be at the manor in two hours to hand the gun off to Roxanne. Arthur will be doing the honor for your boy.”

“I don’t see why he won’t let me do it. It’s tradition after all, the mentor giving the candidate the final test.”

“He probably sees you have a soft spot for Eggsy that is a mile wide, and vice versa for Eggsy. If you gave him the gun he would do it because he trusted _you_ , not Kingsman, and that’s not the point. Alistair can’t do Roxanne’s either.”

“Because she is family, Ian. Percival is the closest thing to a father she ever had besides James.”

“Can you sit there and tell me that you don’t feel as if Eggsy is family? Lord knows the lad’s imprinted on you as a father figure. He follows you around like a puppy.” Ian leans against the dresser with his arms folded.

“As if you don’t care for the boy as well.”

“I’ve never denied I do. Both Eggsy and Roxanne are family to us, Kingsman family. How could they not be with their parents being who they are? I have already decided that the one who doesn’t get Lancelot will be offered a position under me in Avalon. I don’t want either of them out of our collective sight.”

“I am sure Roxanne will fit in well in your division. I just hope she doesn’t hold Eggsy’s success against him. They remind me of you and me when we were young, without all the sexual tension, of course.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be any sexual tension since Roxanne prefers women.”

Harry starts laughing again. “Roxanne is a lesbian and Eggsy is bisexual. This is perfect. Chester is going to have a stroke when he realizes he is surrounded by a bunch of,” Harry lifts his nose and sneers, “ _queers_.”

“We’ve been waiting for that bastard to keel over at the table for years, I don’t see it happening anytime soon.” Ian turns and starts rummaging through his drawers for pants and socks. “You really think Eggsy has it?”

“Of course I do. He wants this more than anything. He sees it as a way to not only lift himself up, but it will also allow him to provide for Michelle and his little sister Daisy. He told me as much the other night during our twenty-four hours.”

“Before or after you both polished off the gin?”

“During. And I polished off the gin, he passed out in the guest after four martinis. He has a horrid tolerance for alcohol, something I plan on fixing as soon as he is knighted. No protégé of mine is going to be a lightweight.”

“Probably because your martinis are _pure gin_. For fuck’s sake Harry, the boy doesn’t need to be a sot like you. I don’t remember it being a requirement for a Kingsman to be able to drink his weight in alcohol and still shoot a straight line with both hands.”

“No, but it is certainly a useful skill to have.”

“You’re a blight upon the agency.”

“I do try, Ian. I have standards to which people expect me to perform at. It would be ungentlemanly to let them down. But enough about work,” Harry throws the covers back. “Come back to bed. It will take you a total of an hour to shower, eat, and get to the manor, leaving us at least one hour to get completely filthy.”

Ian leaves for the manor swearing he can still feel Harry inside him. Morning sex with Harry is Ian’s favorite. It’s sweet and loving and fucking intense. Sitting in his chair all day going to be a _bitch_. 

—————

Harry is walking around the house, fussing with his knick knacks, dusting Mr. Pickle, and fluffing pillows to burn off the nervous energy he has thrumming through him while waiting for Eggsy’s triumphant call. Tacking Ian to the mattress, in the most loving way possible, this morning helped some, but he cannot keep still. He hasn’t been this nervous about Kingsman tests since he was a candidate. 

His glasses that are in the pocket of his cardigan ping.

“Galahad.”

“Harry.” 

“Ian, is there something wrong?” Ian never calls Harry by name over his glasses.

“Eggsy failed the test. He wouldn’t shoot JB, he turned the gun on Chester instead. And then, after all that, he _steals Chester’s car_. It looks like he has headed back to his flat.”

Harry is swept away on a tide of pure, cold, unadulterated rage. “Thank you, Ian. I will see to it from here.”

“Harry, I know you’re angry but…” Harry hits the button that ends the communication. 

Harry grabs his tablet, bringing up the app that allows a Kingsman to track, and if needed, control one of the black cabs. Eggsy apparently is idling in front of The Black Prince. Harry quickly takes control of the car, listens to Eggsy yell at _him_ , as if _Harry_ was the one who just fucked everything up, and waits on his balcony until the car idles in. 

Harry is ice.

—————

Harry is a vicious fucking little arsehole. He is cruel and exacting, a scalpel of words to cut clean to the bone, his victim bleeding out before they even register the pain. 

That’s what Harry left Eggsy doing, bleeding out in the loo while Mr. Pickle, the dog Harry _could_ shoot because he’s an arsehole, looks at the corpse Harry left behind.

All the anger has left him by the time he gets to the manor. Now he just feels old and ashamed. Why he thought Eggsy was going to be able to shoot JB, especially with that wrinkled cunt Chester handing him the gun, when Eggsy couldn’t even run over a fucking fox is beyond him. Of course, Eggsy would toss everything down the shitter for JB, because Eggsy is good and kind in a way that Harry doesn’t think he ever was. Now, Harry is just one arsehole in the long line of many in Eggsy’s life that have repaid the kindness that is innate in him with pain. It would have been kinder if he had just hit him. Eggsy would have known how to deal with that. Most likely by knocking Harry straight on his arse, which he richly deserved. 

Harry walks into Ian’s office, his suit over his arm and luggage in hand. Ian doesn’t turn around from his monitors.

“You want to explain why the fuck you hung up on me earlier?” Ian asks. “Or should I just assume you were throwing one of your patented Princess Pissy Pants tantrums?”

Harry doesn’t even have it in him to argue.

“I was throwing one of my tantrums,” he answers, looking at the floor.

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he turns in his chair. He immediately comes to where Harry is standing and rubs Harry’s shoulders while bending his knees so he can catch Harry’s eyes.

“Jesus, Harry. What the fuck did you do? You didn’t kill that lad did you?”

“No, that would have been kinder I think. You know how I am, Ian when I’m angry.”

“Yes, I do. A vicious little adder, striking before he even knows what he’s striking at.”

Harry rests his head on Ian’s shoulder, the suede on the jumper’s shoulders is cool against his skin. Ian’s fingers find their way into his hair and massage his scalp.

“Surely it can’t be all that bad.”

Harry huffs out a laugh. “It is. I said terrible things to him. Things I now regret saying, as I usually do when I am an insufferable little twat.”

“Harry,” Ian says, pulling his head up, “Eggsy will forgive you. When you get back from Kentucky you can talk to him. I can present him with the offer to work here with me. The lad is sharp as a fucking tack, he’ll make an excellent handler.”

“I hardly doubt Chester will go in for that.” 

“Chester can sit on it and twirl for all I care. Merlin chooses his successor and Merlin chooses his team. Chester holds no sway here.”

“Thank you, Ian. God, I don’t even know why you put up with me.”

“I ask myself that every day. I think it might be penance for some unknown, horrible sin I must have committed in a past life. I should be canonized after this one.”

Ian presses a kiss to Harry’s forehead before pressing another to his lips. Harry grips Ian to him, one hand at the small of Ian’s back, the other on his nape. He is surrounded by Ian, the scent of him, Ian’s strong body against him, holding him up. Harry can feel some of the tension fall out of his shoulders.  

“Eggsy’s still at the house. I told him to wait there for me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll call him and tell him to stay put. Once you are on your way home, I’ll get him sorted and brought back here. We can both talk to him. It will be fine, Eggsy is just as quick tempered as you are, no doubt he is feeling a bit small right now as well.”

Harry sighs and shakes himself.  “I’m wheels up in an hour, why don’t you tell me more about this damned church I am going to.”

—————

Harry stops, the red haze finally gone from his mind, and looks around at the bodies littering the church. _He_ had done that. Well, most of it. Some of the parishioners had done each other in, but he remembers lighting a man’s face on fire, he remembers driving a stake through that vile preacher, he remembers blowing a woman’s brains out of the back of her skull, and worst of all he remembers _loving_ it.

He has certainly done worse during his time as a Kingsman, but he has never killed for the sheer pleasure of it, and it was, if he is being honest with himself, pleasurable. It was sex and alcohol and the rush of adrenaline hitting like a coke high straight to the brain all at once. For the most part, he feels horrified and ashamed at the cold-blooded murder of so many, not innocents surely, not with the filth they were spouting, but civilians who needn’t have died by his hand at least. But a small part, a small part of him that no one, not even Ian, has ever seen, one he doesn’t like to examine too closely himself, already misses the blood-soaked high. 

“Harry! Harry, for fuck’s sake, answer me!”

Ian’s voice comes to him through a layer of cotton, slowly becoming more distinct as he comes back to himself.

“Ian, Jesus. Did you see all that?” Harry asks, knowing the answer is yes but desperately hoping the answer is no. For Ian to have seen that terrifies him more than the entire shit show put together.

“I did, and Chester did as well. I have us on a private communication line now, seems the sound was ‘damaged’ during the scuffle, but I couldn’t not route the feed from your glasses to the Table room when he asked for it specifically.”

“Scuffle? Ian, I just murdered an entire church with nothing but my gun, a lighter, and my bare hands. I think that is a little more than a scuffle.”

“Harry, it wasn’t your fault. Valentine’s signal must have done something to your brain. You were not in control.”

 _Yes, I was_ , Harry thinks, _it’s just not a side of me you have ever seen_. Harry looks at his hands. They are red, wet, and trembling. He begins to walk back towards the front of the church.

“Harry, no, you do not go out that door. Valentine planned this, he probably watched the entire thing through the same security feed I hacked into. It is almost definite that he is out there waiting for you.”

“I know that, Ian.” 

“You are not armed. He _will_ be. You are going to retreat. Go through the window behind the altar, dig your way out through the cellar, _but do not go out that fucking door_. That is an order Galahad. Do you hear me? A fucking order.”

“Ian, you know I never listen to those.” _This will be my penance_ , Harry thinks. “I only have a few moments most likely. Do you remember me telling you that I never wanted to face down a bullet and regret any choices I had made concerning us? I don’t Ian, I don’t regret one single moment with you. The good. The bad. The painful. The perfect. All of them were worth every second because they were _with you_. I love you, Ian. You are my breath, the blood that pumps in my veins. You are everything to me. 

“Now, please, I am asking you, turn off my feed to your monitors. If what is outside is what I think it is I don’t want that to be the last memory you have of me.”

“Harry,” Ian’s voice is thick in his ear, “please, I am begging you. Please retreat. For us. Come back so we can regroup and use what we know now to take down Valentine. Please don’t risk going out there and leaving me here alone. I can’t. I fucking can’t do this without you. I don’t know _how_.” Ian’s voice cracks. 

“I have to do this. You know I have made it out of much more dangerous situations. I just lived through all of these people trying to kill me, perhaps I will live through this as well. Turn off your connection to the feed. I’ll ping you when it’s over.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I am letting you walk out there alone. You will not be alone, Harry, not now.”

“Then we do this together, like everything else. God, I do love you, Ian. Always know that.”

Harry moves forward.

—————

“I have always known that,” Ian answers as he watches Harry move to the door through both the glasses and the security camera on Harry’s right side.

Ian can see from here that Harry is shaking, although he thinks he might be the only one who would notice it. He begins talking as Harry walks. He turns Harry’s voice feed back on so that Chester can hear it, but keeps the one putting his voice into Harry’s ear for Harry only.

“We are so lucky, Harry, to have had this. Most people would have given up on the other after the first time it blew up in our faces, but I know I could not stay away from you any more than you could stay away from me.”

 _Harry opens the door and all Ian can see is what is in front of him. Valentine, Gazelle, and two men with guns pointed right at Harry. Harry hesitates for a moment, a slight jolt going through him. He knows there is very little chance he is going home_.

Ian’s voice betrays nothing. If Harry can face this he damn well fucking will as well. 

_“What did you to me? I had no control. I killed all those people. I wanted to.”_

“You said you don’t have any regrets. I do. I regret every moment I allowed something to come between us. I regret every moment that I did not spend showing you how much I love you. I regret every moment we could have had that we didn’t because even thirty years is not enough time to have loved you, Harry Hart. It’s not enough time.”

_“Clever, isn’t it? In simple terms, it’s a neurological wave that triggers the centers of aggression and switches off inhibitors.”_

_“All transmitted through your nasty, free SIM cards, I assume.”_

“The past four years have been the happiest of my life. I thank you for spending them with me. I thank you for loving me, Harry, even when I could not love myself. I thank you for forgiving all the hurt I caused you. I thank you for always being what I needed, when I needed it, no matter the cost to you. You are a gift beyond measure. I love you, Harry. I love you so fucking much.” Ian’s voice shatters, it’s shards ripping through him on the way to the floor. “God, please don’t leave me here,” he says, not much louder than a whisper.

_“Do you know what this is like? It’s like this old movies we both love. Now, I am going to tell you my whole plan, and then I am going to come up with some absurd and convoluted way to kill you, and you will find an equally convoluted way to escape.”_

_“Sounds good to me.”_

Ian clears his throat. “I was going to ask you to…”

“ _Well, it ain’t that kind of movie._ ”

_A gunshot._

Silence.

—————

After Eggsy brings the bloody chip to Ian. After Roxanne has played Major Tom with two balloons that look like bollocks. After Ian has blown the heads off of countless rich families, royalty, world leaders, and minor celebrities. After Eggsy has turned Gazelle into a mottled corpse of green and black, and then used her own prosthetic to kill her lover. After they are back at the manor with Chester’s body lying in the Table room, bloated and rank. After Eggsy and Roxanne have left the plane to see who, if anyone, has made it back to the manor, Ian can finally and utterly fall apart. 

It doesn’t start out too awfully bad. Still having not disembarked from the plane, he makes his way to the bar and pours himself a drink. He takes off the captains jacket he is wearing, laying it across the bar. They did well, the three of them. Roxanne faced her fear of heights and Eggsy more than proved he was Kingsman material. He may not have been able to shoot the dog, but he showed no issue with ruthlessly gunning down everyone that stood in his way. Harry was going to be…

Ian pitches forward as he vomits the alcohol he just drank on to the lush, pale beige carpeting of the cabin. He had forgotten for those few blessed, adrenaline choked hours. He had forgotten that Harry wasn’t ever going to be anything ever again because Harry was lying on the cursed ground of Fuckstick, Kentucky with half his skull missing and his blood soaking into the dirt. 

Ian falls to his knees, his arms wrapped around his middle, his body bowed over on itself until his head almost touches the floor. He is keening, sobbing, rocking forward and back and forward and back, barely even able to breathe as he shakes apart. Two arms come around him. For a moment he tries to fight back, but they are like a vice, holding him against a strong chest.

Vague shushing and nonsense is murmured at him. Hands stroke his back and sides, holding him, supporting him now that he is unable to support himself. The first thing he recognizes as he comes back to himself is the fabric of the suit beneath him. It is the navy and gray pinstripe Harry favors. For one single, ecstatic moment he thinks he saw wrong. Harry was not shot, he is not dead, he is here with Ian, holding him in his arms. Then Ian recognizes the voice murmuring to him. It’s Eggsy who is comforting him. The shock of allowing someone to see him like this forces him up and out of Eggsy’s arms, awkwardly reaching for his glasses and wiping his face with the pocket square Eggsy hands him.

“My apologies for you having to see that,” he says stiffly, his voice hoarse.

“Merlin, with all due respect, fuck that. I saw what you saw. If anyone has the right to finally lose their shit today it’s you, mate.”

Ian says nothing, still deeply discomfited over losing control in front of someone who he is supposed to be a superior, of sorts, to. 

“I know about you and Harry, Merlin. I’ve known since the night of the train tracks. I saw the photos and your face in them when you looked at Harry.” Ian’s breath gets trapped in his throat again. “I saw Harry’s face when he talked about you.

“So tell me, what can I do to help? Do you need to go home? Do you need me to dart you for a few hours so you can get some rest?” A ghost of Eggsy’s cheeky grin flits across his face. “Just say the word and I will do it.”

Ian thinks about stepping into their home again, where less than forty-eight hours ago he and Harry had made love in the bed upstairs. He tilts to the side as he is sick once more, nothing but a thin bile coming up now. He wipes his mouth. 

“I can’t go home. Not right now at least. I need to work, I need to be busy. There is too much to do and without an Arthur, it falls to Merlin to run Kingsman.”

“How ‘bout I go get you some clothes from home then, yeah? Enough for at least a week. I can tidy up while I am there.”

Ian practically lunges for Eggsy. “No! If you go in that house you don't touch a fucking thing, do you understand me. I swear they will never find your body if you touch anything.”

Eggsy rears back, his hands held up. “I won’t, bruv, swear down.”

Ian realizes he has Eggsy’s tie in a death grip and is instantly ashamed. “I’m sorry, Eggsy, that was uncalled for.”

“Merlin, seriously, it’s fine. I am going to go and get you some clothes and you can go see how we are doing after this whole clusterfuck, but when I get back you will lay the fuck down for a little while or I _will_ dart you.”

“You don’t have the bollocks to dart me.”

“I am positive that I do. Harry isn’t here to keep an eye on you, so I will do it even if it ends up with you knocking me on my arse every few days. It’s the least I can do for him after… never mind..”

“I know,” Ian clears his throat, “ I know you and Harry fought before he left. He didn’t tell me what about, but he regretted every single thing he said Eggsy. Harry is, _was_ , insufferable when he was angry. He would lash out with every verbal weapon he had at his disposal if that meant he would win the argument. He never meant a quarter of what he said and he never meant what he said to you.”

Eggsy’s eyes are wet and he looks away. “Right. Anyway, let me go get those clothes. I’ll be back for you soon, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Ian answers. 

They walk off the plane together, Eggsy heading towards the train, and Ian heading to Avalon to see just what remained of Kingsman.

—————

The answer was not much. Ian was happy to see that Avalon and Glastonbury were mostly intact, as is the manor staff and medical. The lockdown he initiated kept everyone who was already in the manor there and since Kingsman used their own cellular network, no one had those fucking cards. As for the people who were outside of the manor, so far they have been able to contact three of the ten. 

Agents confirmed down were Galahad, Tristan, Bors, Geraint, Balin, and Beaumains. Of those, Balin and Geraint were without heads. Percival, Gwaine, Bors, and Accolon were in the wind. 

Arthur was dead. Ian personally drags the body out of the Table room, through the manor proper, out the back door and throws it into the pit where bodies that needed to be disposed of quickly went. Colton was down there somewhere, or pieces of him were. Ian doesn’t know what happens to the bodies that are dumped there, but they are destroyed somehow. Lye he supposes. He then goes back in and cleans up the mess the body left behind. Chester’s picture is taken off the wall and put up in the shooting range for now. He figures those that come back will need some sort of catharsis and closure. 

When he returns to Avalon he finds Eggsy and Igraine blocking his way. 

“When I said you was having a rest, Merlin, I wasn’t joking.”

“I suggest you both move before I move you. Today out of all the fucking days in the entire history of days is not the one to fuck with me on,” he snaps, instantly enraged. How can they not understand that he can’t sleep? That all he will see is the flare from a gun and blue Kentucky sky overlaid with blood. 

“Merlin,” Eggsy begins placatingly, “we can do this the hard way, but wouldn’t it be better to do it the easy way?”

“I’ll fucking show you the hard…” 

A dart hits him in the side of the neck. 

 _Fucking Roxanne_.

He wakes hours later. Clothes are neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He puts his glasses on and is surprised to see he is in his rooms. Not Harry’s, which later became theirs, but his old rooms that he used before he and Harry were properly together. He hasn’t been in them for over four years. He is grateful to who ever had the foresight to lay him here rather than the rooms he shared with Harry. Eggsy most likely. That boy is always taking care of who he considers his. Ian supposes that he, along with Kingsman, now fall into that category. The notion both comforts and rankles him. 

He walks around the room slowly, looking at who he was before, hoping that maybe it would give him insight on how to live now. Of course, he wasn’t really without Harry then. He was without him romantically to be sure, but he knew that he would be seeing him again. 

Not now. 

He shakes himself and heads into the shower. He dresses efficiently. He eats what he can stomach of his breakfast in the Table room and resumes his place in Avalon. He sends Igraine to her rest, noting that she ran the whole place without so much as a hiccup throughout the entire mess of V-Day. With a hand on her shoulder, he stops her as she passes and murmurs “Bloody good job. I couldn't have done it better myself.” She looks at him, her dark eyes flitting around his face before she hugs him quickly. “I’ve learned from the best. I’ll be back in eight hours,” and then leaves, her colorful dreadlocks swinging behind her.

Eggsy and Roxanne come in and out, bringing him news of the world and the damage suffered. By noon Bors and Gwaine have made it back to the manor and are in medical being treated. Bors has a stab wound to the shoulder and is missing three fingers. Gwaine is walking on his own but has an aggressive infection from a bullet through his side. Still, they are alive. 

Igraine relieves him in exactly eight hours. He finds Eggsy and Roxanne and yells himself sick at them for daring to dart him. He then hugs both of them so tight that Roxanne actually squeaks. 

Both of them are pale, dark stains under their eyes. 

“Eggsy, have you checked on your family yet?”

“Mom and Dais are fine, thanks to Rox here. Dean didn’t make it, not that anyone gives a fuck. She’s staying at her mum’s until things get sorted.”

“No word from Percival then?” Ian asks, his heart heavy. 

Roxanne shakes her head. “Nothing. His glasses aren’t transmitting. The last anyone knew he was in Scotland for an assassination mission. His last transmission was three hours before we left the manor.”

“Until we hear different we assume he is alive, lass. I am going to get something from the kitchens and go to my rooms. I am ordering you two to do the same. I don’t want to see you until tomorrow morning. Understood?”

“Yes, Merlin.”

“Good, away with you both.”

Ian manages to eat a quarter of the small meal he had brought back to his rooms before it makes him sick. He is exiting the loo, wiping his mouth off after rinsing it out when there is a knock at his door. 

“Come.”

Alistair walks through. His suit is ripped and bloody. He is limping and his arm is in a sling. Ian walks right up to him, throws his arms around him, and almost crushes him to his chest before he remembers the arm. Alistair’s good arm comes up and winds around his neck. 

“I’m sorry, Ian,” Alistair sobs into his neck, “I am so, so, very sorry.”

Ian holds on and cries with him.

————

Two days later Accolon stumbles into the manor, banged up but no worse for wear. He was lucky. He had been on a rooftop conducting surveillance. By the time his rage had carried him all the way down to the ground floor, the waves were over. He came by his wounds honestly, by kicking the shit out of looters and other opportunists. 

The Table looks to Ian in the absence of an Arthur. He is the most senior member Kingsman has at this point. Every one of the sitting agents having trained under his Merlin or Ian himself. He can’t reach out to the other branches for any sort of leadership as they are hit just as hard as Kingsman, so he straightens his tie and shoulders the crown along with the wand. If nothing else, it will keep him so busy and ran into the ground that he won’t dream of blue and red skies, of gunshots and sentences never finished. 

He sends the agents out, including Eggsy, who in absence of an actual Arthur, cannot be inducted into the Table despite the almost (some agents are fucking pricks, _Accolon_ ) unanimous desire to make him one. They shore up governments here, take out power hungry, rising dictators there, and in between missions they try to cobble together enough candidates to start the first trials for one of the open seats. 

Igraine and her second, Lucan, which Ian supposes would be his third if he had a third, are in charge of the training, with Ian being consulted only if there was a dire need for an outside opinion. He sees the group run past the windows one day. He swears the little fucks can’t be over the age of sixteen. He thinks of Harry and that ridiculous hair flying all over the place in the wind and remembers looking at him with this intense longing in his gut. But then again, he always looked at Harry like that, from the night Harry kissed him in the alley way to the day Harry died, his desire never waned or disappeared. The papers in front of him go blurry and he blinks his eyes. 

The next time he looks up the sky is dark and the manor is silent. He snags a bottle of scotch and leaves the office to head to the roof. He wants to be alone. None of Eggsy’s watchful eye. Now he knows how Harry felt when Ian coddled him. Ian can’t make a move in the manor without Eggsy noting if Ian looks like he has slept, eaten, and showered in the past twenty-four hours. It’s frankly annoying as fuck but he still appreciates the sentiment.

And Eggsy, he’s a whole other problem. He is constantly hovering around Ian and while Ian knows he means well, but when he is suited up he is such a doppelgänger for a younger Harry that Ian feels his heart fracture every time he catches Eggsy out of the corner of his eye. 

His path towards the stairs to the roof bring him by Harry’s office. He has not gone in since they have been back, just like he has not been home. Two weeks he has spent in the manor, not leaving it once. He puts his hand on the knob and lays his forehead against the cool oak of the door. He begins to turn the knob but stops. 

Not yet. 

He can’t. 

Not yet.

Once he gets to the roof he heads for the corner that overlooks the pond. He spent a lot of time up here when he and Harry were fighting, or Harry was involved with someone else. One night he got so drunk, when Harry had started dating that little pissant Claude if he remembers correctly, that he passed out and slept through a rainstorm. Merlin had to activate his glasses to find him the next morning. As he walks to his corner he is surprised to see someone already sitting there. 

“I know it’s you, Ian,” Alistair says without turning around. “Don’t go unless you haven’t brought any alcohol with you. If that’s the case, go down and get some, and then bring it back with you. My bottle’s almost empty.”

Ian walks over and sits down next to him, takes a pull from the bottle he brought and passes it to Alistair.

“It get’s stifling doesn’t it?” Alistair asks.

“What does?”

“All the concerned looks that are thrown your way every day. The way everyone handles you with kid gloves. The pity.”

Ian huffs. “It does.”

“They mean well. They do. You and Harry were the only people I knew that let me come to you rather than following me about, wondering when I was going to crack. You don’t know how much I appreciated it.”

“And did you? Crack, I mean?”

“God, Ian, I haven’t stopped cracking. It just gets easier to hide after a while. Besides, I had Roxanne to think about. Of course, now, I guess you have Eggsy.”

“Not in the same way.”

“No, but close. He talked to Roxanne and I, told us about the fight he had with Harry. What Harry said to him, what he threw back. He feels as if he failed him. It goes without saying that he plans on not failing you.”

“He’s a good lad. Smart, lethal as hell. He cut through that damn bunker like he had been a Kingsman for ten years rather than ten hours. Not to mention Chester. Poisoned him with his own pen and then dug the chip out of the man’s neck _with_ the pen. Harry would be as proud and pompous as a new father over him.”

“Harry was proud and pompous over everything, Ian,” Alistair says with a low laugh. 

Ian takes another drink from the bottle. “That he was.”

“We are lucky you know.”

“How’s that? Both of the men we loved died far away from us with their bodies left where they fell.”

“But we had them,” Alistair’s words are just starting to run together at the edges, like ink under tears. “We had them and we loved them and for some reason still unknown to me they loved our incredibly boring arses back. Harry and James were so much alike, even though neither of them would admit to it with a gun to their heads. They were so big, so bright, that when they stepped into a room you couldn’t look anywhere but at them even as they burned your eyes. 

“James used to look at me like I had hung the stars and I just could not figure out what the hell he saw in me. I am, and I know this, altogether too serious for my own good, a complete and utter prick on my best days, and am so _not_ spontaneous that James used to joke that I scheduled my own bowel movements.”

Ian laughs before he can stop it. “Yes, well, I can sort of see that,” he says smiling sideways at Alistair. Alistair smiles back and leans against Ian’s shoulder. 

“Harry was much the same. He should have been a caricature of himself. All long legs and silly hair. I thought he was the ponciest little fucker when I met him. Hated him before he even opened his mouth just because he was just so absurd. But I could never pull my eyes away from him. I always knew where he was in relation to me. He was gorgeous and perfect and so far above what I deserved and yet he chose me. And kept choosing me no matter how much I hurt him. 

“He was just like that fucking dog, you never had the pleasure of meeting ‘wee rat dog,’ or Mr. Pickle as Harry named him during the Galahad trials, once that little runt of a dog got his teeth into something he would not let go. I watched him try to drag a dog bed, with my dog, Angus, a full grown Irish Wolfhound, in it across the floor. He could not get the bed to budge an inch but he scrabbled against the floor, pulling and growling, until he passed out with his teeth still in the fabric. Harry refused to give up on me as well. Thank god he didn’t.”

Ian takes a deep breath. “I was with him when he died.” 

Alistair’s hand flies out of his lap to grip Ian’s tightly. “Jesus Christ, I don’t know if I am jealous that you had those final moments or thankful that I don’t have those memories.”

“Honestly, I don’t know which is the better option myself. I watched him slaughter that church. I begged him not to go out the front, for him to retreat so we could regroup now that we knew what Valentine was planning. He refused. He told me how much he loved me, begged me to turn off the feed and walked out the church. I didn’t of course, I talked to him the entire time he was standing there, telling him that I loved him. I was telling him that I was going to ask him to marry me when the bullet went through his head.” Tears are falling from his eyes, slowly trailing down his face, dripping off his chin. He wipes at them with a pocket square of Harry’s that he found in his rooms the other day. 

“You were planning on proposing?”

“I was. I bought the ring while he was in the coma after his meeting with Arnold. I had decided that I wanted it to be special so I had plans of getting away for a weekend once this Valentine mess blew over. Now the ring is sitting in a drawer at home. He was constantly hinting at it, but I knew he never thought I would really do it, not with how long it took me to even get to where I am now. But I was going to, Alistair. I dreamed about hearing him call me husband.”

“James had already asked and I accepted.” Alistair raises the hand that was holding Ian’s, twirling a ring around his ring finger that Ian had never noticed before. “I only wear it off mission, but I plan on wearing it until I die. Make sure I am buried with it if I die in the field, Ian.”

“Don’t say that, not now,” Ian says reaching for Alistair’s hand again. “I can’t lose you as well.”

“It’s the nature of the job. We all know that.”

“Harry told me that if he died in the field that he would want me to move on, find someone else. He even suggested you.”

Alistair throws back his head and laughs. “What we had was good, I’ll never deny that. But an actual relationship? We’d kill each other within the first day.”

“I told him as much. I don’t plan on moving on though. I can’t think of anyone who could even hold a candle to Harry, I can’t imagine ever loving anyone like that again.”

“I know, I can’t either. James was…” Alistair waves his hand around as he struggles to find the right words.

“Harry was too.”

They sit in silence for a while longer, passing the almost empty bottle back and forth between them. 

“I meant what I said Alistair, you are not allowed to leave me as well. We’re the only ones left who remember who James and Harry truly were, and who we all were together.”

At that Alistair seems to crumple from within, falling halfway into Ian’s lap, sobbing. Ian folds himself over Alistair, holding him, protecting the shared memories that lie between them of the men they both loved and lost. Both of them longing for what they will never have again.

—————

Alistair finds him one morning, eating breakfast in the dining room, a month after V-Day. 

“It’s time, Ian,” Alistair says, leaning back and crossing his legs carefully as to not crease the trousers of his customary black suit. 

“Time for what?”

“Time for you to go home. You can’t keep hiding out here, refusing the face the memories that are lying in the dust in that house.”

“And how long was it before you went home?” Ian snaps before he can stop himself. 

“Six weeks. Roxy was here in training within days of James’ death so I had no reason to go home. I stayed at a hotel for as long as I could because I couldn’t bear to be in the house with all those memories or in the manor with Chester. It was hell, Ian, I won’t lie to you and say different, but you have to do it. You deserve to start healing. Harry’s ghost deserves to rest. I can go with you if you like.”

“Fuck.” Ian lays down the papers he was looking through. “No, but thank you for offering.” Ian sighs and rubs his hand over his face. “I know I have to, but it’s been a month now. I feel like if I just don’t go in it the house will keep the last morning we spent together perfectly contained so that it will always exist.”

Alistair leans forward and reaches out his hand, placing it over Ian’s heart. “It will always exist, you daft sod. It exists in here.”

—————

It’s another week before he can bring himself to go home.

Ian opens the door to Harry’s, well, his and Harry’s, well, just his he supposes now, house for the first time since he walked out of it the morning of the dog test. He has let no one go into it besides Eggsy and Alistair, who took it upon themselves to make sure Ian was not wearing the same jumper five days in a row. The air is stale but less so than he expected. He fancies he can smell Harry’s cologne in the air, although he is sure he cannot. He takes his shoes off at the door out of habit and walks into the kitchen. In the sink is the mug he used for his coffee, and beside it is tea cup Harry must have used before he left in the morning. Ian traces the rim of it with his finger. 

In the sitting room, the book Harry was reading the night before lies open and down on the arm of the chair to keep Harry’s place. His non-Kingsman glasses and a glass that had the whiskey he was drinking before bed lay on the table next to it. The circuit board and tools Ian had been using lay on the couch cushions. 

In the dining room, a second whiskey glass sits on the table, empty. Ian doubts it was Harry who left it there, functioning alcoholic or not, the man did not start his morning with a drink. Eggsy then. After the church. 

He goes up stairs. In the study, the laptop is closed and sits askew on the desk. Also Eggsy. Ian can see it in his head, Eggsy’s shock and horror, the slamming sound of the computer being closed. He walks over and opens it. The screen is cracked down the left side. Fitting.

In the bedroom, the bed is unmade because Harry could not make his own bed to save his life. The guest bed? Made with military corners and crisp sheets. Harry’s bed? A riot of sheets, rucked up duvets, and pillows at odd angles. Ian was always the one to make it. He does not now. He looks at it thinking about the last time he was in it. Harry deep inside of him, whispering filth interspersed with endearments into his ear while he wrapped his legs around Harry’s back and held on. The bottle of lube they used peeks out from the corner of the sheet. He wonders if Eggsy or Alistair noticed when they were fetching his clothes for him. He doesn’t much care.

The wardrobe is open, he can see some of the clothing pulled half off of their hangers. There are two ties lying limply on the floor, and the drawer where Harry kept his pants is only half shut. Harry really was in a full Harry Hart tantrum when he left. 

Harry had told Ian he would be back so they could solve the problem of Eggsy. Instead Harry, in true form, fucked it all up. If he would have just _listened_ to Ian. He wouldn’t be… _Fuck_

Ian takes a deep breath. 

He wouldn’t be dead. 

Ian stands in the room looking at the unmade bed and the clothes on the floor and the lube and then back around to the bed. He wants to pick up, put the house in order, but once he does all the things that Harry had left behind, all those little messy proofs of life, will be gone. Harry’s mess will disappear, and with it, in Ian’s mind, the last tie Ian has with him. Once clean it will only be Ian’s messes, Ian’s bed, never his and Harry’s, never theirs again. 

Ian goes to his sock drawer to get the ring. He is thinking of wearing it himself in some fashion. He would have liked to put it on Harry’s hand, to bury him with it, but he has no body to bury. Maybe he will drop it in the toasting brandy in the manor, drink it, and hope he chokes on it. 

He won’t of course. Choke himself on the ring that is. Choke on grief, yes. Choke on rage, yes. But not the ring. He has people that need him. Eggsy, Roxanne, Alistair. Kingsman. He will go on for them even though each day he lives without Harry is like crawling over razor blades. Each memory a cut, each time he forgets Harry is dead, another, until he finally, blessedly, bleeds out. 

He pulls out the ring box and opens it. Along with the ring, which he takes out of the box, is a note from Harry. Ian’s hands tremble as he opens it. 

_Ian,_

_For someone who is the Quartermaster for what is arguably the most impressive independent spy agency in the world, your attempt at hiding this is abysmal, but before you come to find me to yell about me ruining your big surprise, allow me a few words._

_I never thought the day would come that you would be proposing to me. I have thought about proposing to you many times, long before we finally figured all this out. I knew you were the only one for me during that first year we spent together. I could see us, as we are now, two grumpy old men fussing at each other over the tea pot. Happy, comfortable, and still insanely in love like we are still the men we were in our twenties. But, what we have now is good. No, it is fantastic, and it is more than I could have ever hoped us having in our darker moments. You have worked so hard to put your past behind you, and God, I am so in awe of your strength every day, so while I teased you about it, I didn’t want to push for something that maybe you were not ready to give quite yet. I decided to let you come to it on your own, and even if you never did, I knew we were going to spend the rest of our lives together, with or without a piece of paper saying the same._

_I wanted you the minute I laid eyes on you and I have loved you since the first time we were together, biblically if I have to spell it out for you. Even through all of the utter shit we put each other through, I have never stopped loving you._

_You are the most constant thing in my world. You are the stability I need to ground me at my worst. You are home after a mission that has gone to shit and left me a shell. You are what brings me back, whether it’s my physical self after a mission, or my soul after I have had to do something that makes me fear that I have finally lost all claim to one. You keep it safe for me in your heart, within our home, our bed, and in your arms, you give it back to me at my darkest moments_. 

Ian falls to his knees, the ring clutched so tightly in his hand he can’t even feel it anymore. 

_I am thankful for every day we have together because of how hard we had to fight for it. I love you with a depth and a passion that I cannot even articulate, even with all the flowery bullshit that I can usually spout off at a moments notice. All of that purple prose is insignificant when held up against my feelings for you._

_You plan on asking me if I would marry you. The answer is yes. Yes in this lifetime, yes in the next, and yes in the all ones that must have come before this one, for what we have is too strong to only get one life in which to experience it._

_Now, come find me and get down on one knee to ask me like a proper gentleman should. Then I can pretend to be surprised, say yes, and get down on_ my _knees so we can celebrate our engagement in style._

_Yours, always and forever yours,_

_HRH, III_

Ian falls forward. His hand that is clutching the ring is in a fist on the floor while the letter is crushed in his other hand, held against his heart. He can’t breathe, he can’t. A hole has opened up in his chest, a black hole that is sucking everything into its dark core, destroying it. He’s hyperventilating, he knows this distantly, as if he is watching himself with cold detachment. He is shaking uncontrollably. An anguished howl tears itself from his chest. The worst part of it is that he can see it so clear in his mind, how he would go to Harry, drop to one knee and propose. He would tell Harry much the same thing Harry wrote him. How he realized he loved Harry the moment he was kidnapped on that mission so long ago. How Harry is the only other person whose broken pieces fit Ian’s like they were meant to. How Harry’s love and support was, and still is, the thing that gives him the courage to be who he is with no shame. How Harry is the center of his world, how he feels privileged every single day he gets to spend loving Harry, making love to him, orbiting him like Harry’s own personal moon, constantly circling him, in awe that Harry was his. 

Now Ian is unmoored. There is no center of gravity keeping him on his course. There is nothing keeping him together. His broken pieces are no longer dulled by fitting against another’s. Instead, they are sharp things cutting into him, slicing his heart open. 

Harry is dead because he broke the promise he made to both of them so long ago. Harry did not come home this time. Ian failed. Harry did not _come_ home because Ian did not _bring_ him home. 

His beautiful face, a face Ian has spent untold hours studying until he knew every nuance, every expression, even better than he knew his own, has been destroyed by a mad man’s bullet. That beautiful hair that Ian could spend hours dragging his hands through while Harry practically purred like a contented cat is matted with blood and brain matter. Harry’s body is somewhere in America, at best in an unmarked grave, at worst left in the dirt of the church, slowly rotting. 

He will never smile sleepily at Ian in the early morning light while Ian wraps his curls around his finger. He will never kiss Ian like he was drowning and Ian was the air he needed to live. He will never cry out Ian’s name as Ian drives him to orgasm and further until he is falling apart in Ian’s arms. 

He will never stand with Ian and slip a ring on to his finger, saying the vows they made to each other years ago without ever saying a word. Ian will never hear Harry call him _husband_.

Ian hunches over and pounds his fist into the floor over and over again while the same cry, like one of a wounded animal, keeps coming out of his mouth. He feels something small break in his hand but he pays it no mind. It is nothing compared to the agony that exists within his hollow chest. He keeps punching the floor, the ring digging into his flesh until his hand is bloody and he can no longer feel two of his fingers. 

He falls to the side, curled in the fetal position on the floor of the bedroom.

Ian feels himself die, piece by piece, until he falls asleep. 

In the morning Merlin pulls himself up off the floor. He smooths the letter out as best he can, folds it as it was, and tucks it into the box the ring was in. He showers clumsily, his broken hand cradled to his chest. Dressing is a chore, he will have to forgo the tie today, but then again Chester isn’t around to care anymore, so why should he? He takes the ring, and with one hand, threads it onto a chain he finds in a drawer. It goes over his head and is tucked safely inside his shirt. It will be safe there, held against his heart. 

He avoids looking at anything but what he has to in the house. Harry's ghost is everywhere, standing just in the of the corner of his eye. Merlin wants to believe that as long as he doesn’t look too closely, it will stay there, silent company.

Merlin goes to medical. Allows them tut over his hand as they x-ray it and put a cast on it. He has broken two of his fingers, hair-line fractured the other two. His thumb is fine. They assure him his hand will make a full recovery as long as he is careful with it and does not try to use it. They give him a bottle of pain killers. He tucks them into his pocket like a promise he may fulfill later. 

He goes to Avalon.

He is Merlin so he begins the task of pulling Kingsman back together. He sends his agents out and brings them home. Kingsman has to re-group, choose a new Arthur, a new King to lead them, but for now, Merlin will continue to fill the role.

He is Merlin and he announces that Eggsy will take the name Galahad even without an Arthur to induct him. If any person has a problem with that, he states plainly, he invites them to come whisper their fucking issue in his ear. He is itching to beat the fuck out of someone, anyone. The cast would pack one fucking hell of a wallop. Unfortunately, no one does. 

He is Merlin, the wizard, the power behind the throne that gives the Knights the magic they need to come home in the form of glasses, ridiculous umbrellas, and lighters that can level buildings.

He is Merlin. 

It is all that is left.


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again. spoilers and discussion for Kingsman: The Golden Circle ahead. You’ve been warned.

**One hour after Harry is shot.**

“Jesus Christ, would you look at this shit?” Whiskey asks as he and Tequila step inside the South Glade Mission Church. He looks down when he hears a wet squelch at their feet. “I’d watch it Tequila, I think you might be standing in someone’s brains.”

“Fuck. That is just disgusting. I’m going back outside to scrape this off my fucking boots.”

“I’ll look around and see if any of these sorry bastards are still breathing.”

Tequila waves a hand at him as he walks out. “My favorite goddamn boots. _Goddamn_ it.”

After Tequila wipes his boot off on the grass outside, swearing under his breath when he sees that it’s already stained the leather slightly, he walks back towards the door. He stops and looks at the man laying on the ground in front of the church, his arms outstretched as if crucified. His left eye looks completely fucked and Tequila thinks he might see skull under all that blood. He doesn’t look closer.

To Tequila, John Doe seems a little out of place. The suit he is wearing is fucking expensive, and he is too well-groomed, even covered in blood, to seem to fit in with the country folks that are spattered all over their church walls. He crouches down and begins to reach into the man’s suit, looking for identification.

The man groans quietly, scaring the living shit out of Tequila and causing him to land ass first in the dirt. He raises his hand out towards him, reaching weakly. _“Ian?”_ he rasps out before his hand drops back into the dust. He doesn’t say anything else, but Tequila can see that his chest rises and falls regularly, though slower than it probably should.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Whiskey! Get your ass out here, and let Ginger know we need medical. This asshole is alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thrilled to see the still of Statesman apparently coming to save Harry that was going around today since I wrote the above a week ago. I am sure the movie version will be better, and I hope Tequila doesn’t get brains on his boots.
> 
> This is most likely the last Ian/Harry fic until after the movie comes out. I like the fact that I have been able to stick very closely to canon and write as all of this is just happening off screen where we can’t see it. After I see TGC I will be able to decide if I am keeping close to canon or going my own damn way.
> 
> That said, I am toying with the idea of a side fic of James and Percival. We will see how that goes once I get moved.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who will read this, leave comments, leave kudos, or just enjoy it. I have fallen in love with these two and look forward to seeing where they go next. 
> 
> I am ViolyntFemme on [tumblr](http://violyntfemme.tumblr.com) as well if you would like to come yell at me :)
> 
>  **Part Three Update - 6/3/2018** Part Three, the fix it for The Golden Circle movie, is almost finished. Well, I say almost. It's at 77K, and I think I have anywhere between 20K-50K left depending on how much these assholes prattle on in my head. I hope to have it finished, edited, and starting to post by the end of summer. If that changes, I'll edit the note on here. Sub to me or this series if you want to know when it comes out, or just drop me a message or ask on tumblr and I will be more than happy to let you know where it is at. 
> 
> Again, almost a year later, thanks for all the continued comments and kudos. They keep me writing when I am convinced everything I am putting on the page is shit :)

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to avoid and spoilers or discussion for Kingsman: The Golden Circle. Do not read the next chapter. Stop here and check back after the movie. 
> 
> As always, please point out any edits I missed. I am trying to get this posted before I move from MS to NY next week, so in my rush I may have missed something. Or a lot of things. 
> 
> I am ViolyntFemme on [tumblr](http://violyntfemme.tumblr.com) as well if you would like to come yell at me :)


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